Theresa Monsour (25 page)

Frank caught it with both hands. Set it on the couch. “Son. Why don't you settle down? Take a nap. I'll order that pizza.”

Trip took another drink of tequila and pulled a blue-and-white-striped shirt out of the box. “Size s . . . s . . . sixteen. Cotton-poly b . . . blend.” Tossed it at his pa. The package hit him flat in the face.

“Stop!” the old man yelled, throwing the shirt to the floor.

Trip set down the tequila. Took out the straight-edge, opened it. Saw his pa's eyes widen.

“Afraid I'm gonna c . . . cut you, old man?” He laughed and bent over. Cut the tape on one of the sealed boxes.
Closed the knife and shoved it back in his right pants pocket. Pulled open the cardboard flaps and took out a white shirt. Held it up. “Size fifteen. French c . . . cuffs. Perfect for a n . . . night on the t . . . t . . . town. A favorite with the ladies.” He threw it as hard as he could. The corner of the package caught Frank above the left brow. The shirt ricocheted off the old man's head, knocked the coffee cup off the TV tray and landed on the floor. He felt something warm trickling down his face but was afraid to get up. Afraid what his son would do if he tried to leave the room. Hands shaking, he wrapped his right fist around the neck of the Jim Beam and raised the bottle to his mouth. He took a drink and set it down between his legs.

By the time he was finished, Sweet Justice Trip had hurled 183 polybagged dress shirts at his pa. They were all over the couch and on the floor at the old man's feet. Frank sat motionless on the couch. Blood on his face, fear in his eyes, a polybagged size seventeen blue oxford shirt in his lap.

DUNCAN FINALLY GOT his big, dramatic scene in the office, and it was at her expense. Sandeen pulled Murphy aside Thursday afternoon. Told her she had grounds to file a complaint. “That personal shit is way out of line.” They stood whispering by the watercooler. Duncan had kept his office door closed all morning, but opened it after lunch. Every so often he looked out the door.

“Want to forget about it. If I filed, we'd have a tough time working together.” Her real fear was that Duncan would tell their superiors about her role in the doctor's suicide. “I hate to say it, but I want him with me Saturday night.”

Sandeen pulled a paper cup out of the dispenser and filled it with water. “I could do it.” He took a sip. With his other hand, he ran his fingers through his white hair. Smiled. “You could tell your old high school pals you like older men.”

She laughed. “Appreciate it, but he's up to speed on this case. I'm not gonna let his big mouth blow it.”

“Fine.” He downed the water and tossed the cup in the wastebasket. “But if that asshole gives you any more grief, I want to know about it.”

“You will,” she said.

“Now I hope I'm not out of line here.” He touched her left arm with his right hand. “I'm sorry about you and Jack.”

“Thanks. I'm sorry you had to hear about it the way you did. And for the record, Jack did the dumping.” She looked across the room and saw Duncan watching her through his office door. She turned her back to him and continued talking to Sandeen.

Later that afternoon, she sat down at a computer and did a Google search using Justice Trip's name, to see what would come up. She found some online newspaper articles she hadn't read before, including stuff from the Eau Claire
Leader-Telegram
. The story was a rehash of Trip's brush with fame in that community, recalling how his volunteer efforts helped police find a missing girl. She got to the end of the piece and was ready to exit out of the site when she noticed the newspaper's seven-day archives at the bottom of the page. She scanned the list of headlines to see if there was anything else on Trip. A headline about an old hit-and-run case caught her eye. She called up the story, a short piece about how the Eau Claire County Sheriff's Office was still trying to solve the crime. A father of four was struck and killed on a dark country road. He was walking home from a local bar. Like Bunny Pederson, thought Murphy. No witnesses. No vehicle description. No suspects. From the magnitude of injuries, the cops thought it was a truck. Again, like Pederson. Murphy noted the date of the accident and went back to the story on Trip. Checked when Trip found the girl's necklace in the cornfield. Went back to the article on the old hit-and-run case, to make sure she was reading it correctly. Yes. Trip was in the area during the fatal accident. Maybe
accident
wasn't the right word, she thought. Was the father of four another one of Trip's victims? At the bottom of the story was a link to the
Eau Claire County Sheriff's Office. She clicked on it and saw a summary of the case under the heading
Detective News
. At the end of the summary:
If you have any information, even if you think it may be insignificant, please call Sgt. Vern Gilbert
. She picked up the phone and punched in the number. Got Gilbert's voice mail. Left a message. Hung up. Put the cursor on the Print icon and clicked.

She went home from work with the printout of the Eau Claire website and the stack of tire tread pictures Castro had printed off the digital camera. She thought about calling Erik for copies of the tire tread cast and fingerprints, but she was afraid she'd start venting about Duncan. She didn't want to give Erik the satisfaction. Didn't want to admit he could have been right.

She resented that Duncan had dragged her and her home life into one of his door-slamming displays, but she figured it was just a play for attention. Public dramatics. She dismissed his criticism of Erik and his praise of Jack. He didn't know either one of them well enough to have meaningful insight. He had no idea what they were like off the job. She couldn't so easily write off Duncan's opinion of the doctor's suicide. Right after it happened that summer, she told herself it was self-defense. The murderer had her own gun trained on her. Told her he intended to rape and kill her. She had to do something. Talking him into suicide was the same as struggling over the weapon and winning. Shooting the bad guy before he shot her. As time went on, she had had doubts. Had she made a horrible mistake? Gabe had tried to reassure her she'd saved the taxpayers some money. If he really believed that, why had he confided in Duncan? She considered calling Gabe and then talked herself out of it. She was a big girl. She didn't need to keep leaning on someone else. But she wanted to know why he told Duncan. She fell asleep on her bed with the phone in her hand, still undecided.

 

MURPHY didn't go into the cop shop Friday. She called Duncan's number in the morning and left a terse message
on his voice mail: “I'm working the case at home today. Be here at seven tomorrow night.” She hung up before she added what she really wanted to say: “Go fuck yourself.”

She checked the clock on her nightstand. Too early to call Martin Porter, her buddy at Public Safety. She'd left a message for him Thursday. Wanted to run some questions by him about pedestrian traffic deaths.

She got out of bed, walked to the bathroom, reached inside the stall and turned on the water. Ice cold. She waited. Put her hand under again. A little warmer. She dropped her nightgown on the floor and stepped into the shower. Shivered in the lukewarm spray. Could it be she needed to turn up the temp on the water heater? No, she thought. Too easy. With her luck, the thing needed to be replaced. In between calls on the case she'd search the Yellow Pages. Did Erik know anything about plumbing? Doubtful. Like Jack, he probably preferred paying someone else to do it. She squirted some shampoo on top of her head and worked her hair into a lather. In the middle of rinsing, the water turned icy. She held her head under it as long as she could and frantically scrubbed to get all the soap out. Teeth chattering, she shut off the water. Stepped out. She had a cold headache. She pulled a towel off the bar and wrapped it around her shaking body. Grabbed another towel and rubbed her head. Thought she heard ringing. Was it in her frozen head? She stopped rubbing. More ringing; it was real. She dropped the towel wrapped around her body, yanked the bathrobe off the door hook and pulled it on. She wrapped the other towel around her head and twisted it into a turban. Ran into the bedroom while she tied her bathrobe belt. Where had she tossed the phone this time? Not on the nightstand. Not on the dresser. She pulled the bedspread back and found it under the sheets. She picked it up.

Porter: “Since when do you give a shit about pedestrians? They demoting you to traffic or what?”

“Marty, Marty, Marty. Why would sending me to traffic be a demotion? You have a serious self-esteem problem, my friend.” Murphy liked teasing Porter. He was a cynical
numbers guy in the Minnesota Department of Public Safety's Office of Traffic Safety. He wrote reports about accident prevention and continued to pilot his Harley at the speed of light, and without a helmet.

“You sound crabby. Am I getting you out of bed?” he asked. “I know how you homicide dicks keep bankers' hours while the rest of us are up early, doing real work. Want me to call back when you wake up, like at noon?”

She sat down on the edge of her bed. Pulled off the turban. Ran her fingers through her wet hair with one hand and held the phone with the other. “Shut up a minute. Let me do the talking. I want to run something by you, but first give me some answers to a couple of questions. Traffic-type questions.”

“Traffic-type questions. I live for those. One second. Let me grab the latest edition of the Bible.”

She got off the bed and went to her dresser for a comb. Went back to the bed and sat down again. “Which Bible is that?” She switched the phone to her left hand and with her right hand, started pulling the comb through her tangles.

“The only one in this office.
Minnesota Motor Vehicle Crash Facts
.” She heard paper shuffling. “Okay,” he said. “Fire away.”

“How many pedestrians are killed each year in Minnesota?”

“Way too easy. Don't even need the book for that. Last few years it's ranged from the low forties to the high fifties.”

“We could say about fifty each year.” She tossed the comb on her nightstand.

“Fifty. Yeah. That works.”

“Who are these people? What can you tell me about them? Anything?”

“Actually, I can tell you quite a bit. People younger than twenty-five account for a big chunk of those killed. Guys are more likely to get flattened than gals. Am I boring you yet?”

“You never bore me, Marty.” She switched the phone to her right hand. “Keep rolling.”

“Fine. Let me know when you've had enough. While most of the fatalities are in urban areas, a decent percentage—better than a quarter—are in rural areas.”

“Stop,” she said. The newspaper stories about Trip said he worked as a traveling salesman servicing small towns in Minnesota and Wisconsin. “What do you mean by ‘rural' exactly? That includes small towns, right?”

“We're talking small-town Minnesota. Communities with less than five thousand folks.”

“Okay. How are most killed? What I mean is, what are they doing when they're nailed? Jogging along the side of the road? In a crosswalk pushing a baby stroller? Standing in the middle of the street?”

He sighed. “Ah. The myth of the blameless pedestrian. About a third of those killed were trying to cross a road where they
shouldn't
have been crossing.”

“Meaning?”

“No signal. No crosswalk.”

She sat back against the bed pillows, put her feet up and tucked her toes under the bed linen. “I suppose I shouldn't be surprised.”

“No. But this next thing is moderately interesting. Of those killed who were tested for booze—and most are tested—more than a quarter had concentrations of alcohol over the legal driving limit.”

Murphy thought about Bunny Pederson, drunk when she left the wedding reception. The father of four in Eau Claire had left a bar before he was hit. “Walking while intoxicated,” she said.

“Probably more like stumbling while intoxicated,” he said. “I heard a story about this one poor bastard. Driving drunk. Ran out of gas. Started walking. Passed out in the middle of the highway. He was wearing black clothes. A tuxedo, I think. So many cars ran over him, the State Patrol had trouble figuring out—”

“Enough,” she said. “We're veering off course here.”

“Trying to give you a little flavor is all. Is this what you want?”

“Yes and no.”

“What are you looking for, Murphy? What's going on?”

“Let me ask you this, and it might be out of your area, so if you can't answer, that's cool.”

“Want me to make up shit? I can make up shit if you want. I'm really good at it. Ask my wife.”

“No. Don't make up shit. What happens when people, when drivers, hit pedestrians? Do they stop? Do they keep going? If they freak and keep going, are they usually caught later? Does someone usually see them? Get a license plate? How hard is it to get away with it?”

“I'm talking off the top of my head here. I don't have anything in front of me that supports this. But I think people usually stop; it's damn stupid not to. If you flee, you can get in a hell of a lot more trouble. Do some dummies keep going? Sure. Are they always caught? No. Since time began, there have been cases of fatal hit-and-run accidents without suspects and without clues. Happens all over the state. Hell, all over the fucking world.”

“What if it's not an accident. How hard would it be for someone to do it on purpose and get away with it?”

“On purpose? Depends. They hit someone they know?”

“No. A stranger. For the sake of argument, let's say he hits a stranger.”

He paused. “Okay, this is more good stuff off the top of my brilliant noggin. We all know it's a lot easier to get away with murder if you kill someone you don't know. Could be even easier if you're in a car. You're already in your getaway vehicle.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You've saved a step right there.”

“Yeah. But you still have to be clever about it. Pick the right road. Drive a big mother vehicle. Do it at night. Watch out for witnesses. It would help if you knew what you were doing, had some practice. A professional hit man.” He paused and then started laughing. “Get it? Hit man?”

“He's clever,” she said more to herself than to Porter. “And he's had lots of practice.”

“What? Who are you talking about?”

She posed the question her mind had been dancing around: “What if one man was responsible for a number of these cases in Minnesota and Wisconsin over the last, I don't know, ten or fifteen or eighteen years? What if the reason there were no suspects or clues is because he's gotten really good at it? Really practiced?”

Murphy pressed the phone to her ear. Waited anxiously for an answer or a reaction. Wanted to know how nuts her theory sounded. Finally Porter asked, “What are you thinking? Some sort of serial hit-and-run killer? Jesus. Someone would have noticed the numbers jump, connected the dots.”